


A Truth Universally Acknowledged

by haisai_andagii



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Auction, Courtship, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Issues, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Light Angst, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Protective Siblings, Sibling Rivalry, Stalking, creepshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29491392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haisai_andagii/pseuds/haisai_andagii
Summary: When the oldest of the S’chn T’gai siblings returns, Michael becomes entangled in his latest scheme.  Her hopes for a quiet return to Vulcan society are dashed, as her life becomes a full blown Jane Austen novel full of suitors, bride prices, and awkward dates.  Amanda Grayson is delighted.  Sarek is hopeful.  Spock is annoyed.  Sybok is definitely up to something.  And Michael just wants to be happy.
Relationships: Amanda Grayson & Spock, Amanda Grayson & Sybok, Amanda Grayson/Sarek, Michael Burnham & Amanda Grayson, Michael Burnham & Sarek, Michael Burnham & Spock, Michael Burnham & Spock & Sybok, Michael Burnham/OC, Sarek & Spock, Sarek & Sybok
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is very light-hearted, slightly angsty, silly fic. But just in case, warnings are listed below.
> 
> Warnings: (Tame but still not ok) Creepshots, (Tame but still not ok) Voyeurism, (Thank God It Was Poorly Executed) Sexual Harassment, (Kind-of, Light) Stalking
> 
> Not condoning any of the above behavior. Just letting you know it is in the fic and to what degree of intensity.

Ahn and B’aht do not understand. Their lady - Michael Burnham - had been missing for exactly 3 years, 7 months, 126 days, 23 hours, and 34 minutes since the destruction of the Discovery, is now sleeping soundly in her childhood bed.

Very soundly. 

She looks like a young sehlat dozing in a sunbeam - flat on her back, limbs splayed, her curly mane fanned out around her. Her snores are soft and accented with the occasional sigh. 

B’aht gingerly plucks a few of those said hairs from her head as she dozes. (He pulls several greyed ones as well, but that is more about vanity than anything else.).

“For tests,” he comments to his partner, sliding them into a vial. “There is a possibility that this could be a clone.”

“Or a surgically altered spy,” Ahn offered, gently maneuvering Michael’s limbs into a less vulnerable position before pulling her duvet up to her chin. “Or her Mirror equivalent…” 

“Yes, those are rather common occurrences…” B’aht agrees. “Have you contacted Lady Amanda or Ambassador Sarek?”

“Have _you_?”

B’aht slowly shakes his head. Logically, neither wants the responsibility of telling their masters that their thought-to-be-dead daughter had broken into her family home and had passed out in her bed without either of their knowledge. 

Suddenly, the sound of a toilet flushing echoed through the room. The servants turn to see Spock emerging from the bathroom. They watch with raised brows as he dries his damp hands on his uniform pants. Ahn looks away politely. 

“They already know,” Spock announces, quickly folding his hands behind his back. “Perhaps it is best to discuss this matter further outside of my sister’s room.”

Ahn and B’aht are more than happy to comply.

~~~

Michael sleeps like the dead for three days. On the fourth, she wakes to find her family standing over her. Spock and Sarek stare down at her with blank faces, while Amanda smiles and promptly shoves a basket of saffir onto her lap.

They watch as Michael takes a piece and slowly stuffs it into her mouth like a starving aylak.

“It’s her…!” gasps her mother. “Our Michael is back!”

“Yes, Beloved. Ahn’s tests confirmed it _is_ her,” Sarek adds, his dark eyes searching her crumb-covered face. “But how?”

Spock produces a report from his portable PADD, projecting it for them to see.

“Officially, Michael and most of the crew were conducting off-worlds missions when Discovery’s drive malfunctioned and exploded,” he explained as his sister continued to stuff her face. “The force of the blast left them stranded on a nearby, habitable moon.”

“And the public accepts this as truth?” Sarek asks, tone incredulous even for a Vulcan.

Michael nods, still opting to shove more bread into her mouth.

“Anyway, I’m just glad you are back, sweetie,” Amanda chirps, stroking her hair. “Stay as long as you like.” She places a gentle kiss on her forehead, which earned a muted sigh from her son and the tiniest smile from her husband.

“Well, I can move out,” she finally speaks, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “I have money. The VSA gave Stamets and I permanent directorial research positions while we help them build their own spore drives. So, I also get to teach Xenoanthropology twice a week as a bonus!”

“Finally, a use for your degree that you always talk about but never seem to utilize,” Spock mutters sarcastically. 

Michael rolls her eyes and allows her mother to stick another slice of bread into her mouth.

“Well, we insist that you stay here,” Sarek objects, ignoring his son. “...at least for a while, until we are certain of your health and mental stability.”

“Then, she will die here…” Spock snipes, the corners of his lips twitching.

Ignoring him, Michael chews and analyzes the costs of living rent free before nodding in agreement. After all, she did miss whatever little loved ones she was allowed to have left.

~~~

Across the Alpha Quadrant, a spaceship’s engines give their last strained-rattle before dying. 

“It’s dead, Bokky…” grumbles the Orion woman. She kicks the smoking wreckage with the steeled-toe of her boot. “And if we can’t get a lift, we’re goners too.”

“No one is coming out here for free,” gripes their Andorian companion, gesturing to their desolate surroundings. They managed to crash land on a thoroughly-stripped mined moon at the edge of the Eridani system. “The only thing we have to trade is ass and I’d rather not since our sonic shower conked out yesterday...”

“Pallas, Devi, can one of you rig us up a comm signal out here?” Sybok sighs. “I gotta contact a couple of Vulcans about a horse…”

As Sybok beats back the flames with an extinguisher, the other two exchange curious looks.

“What the fuck is a horse?” she whispers to her Andorian friend.

  
  


**1.**

Vulcans do not rush. 

Punctuality equates purpose, preparedness, and above all, respect. It took six months to secure this appointment and Stark will make an impeccable first impression. He walks towards the Xenoanthropological Department at a brisk pace. With seconds to spare, he finds himself at his desired destination - Professor Burnham’s office.

Stark pauses momentarily and pulls out a small tin from his bag. He waits for a group of administrators to pass, before slipping in a fast-dissolving breath neutralizer. The door suddenly slides open, nearly causing him to choke, and reveals an older Vulcan. Their symmetrical features are irritatingly pleasant as they stare down at Stark with those clever eyes. He notices they are carrying a tray with empty mugs of what smelled like spiced tea, which causes the corner of the interloper’s lips to twitch.

“Greetings, _little_ one.”

“Greetings, _Senior_ Director Voris.”

“Perhap you are lost? Engineering is on the opposite end of the campus.” 

Stark grouses inwardly, shifting his jaw to crush the neutralizer between clenched teeth.

“I must attend my next appointment,” he hears Professor Burnham calls from inside. “Director, allow him entry.” 

Stark’s ear tips glow verdant at the sound of her voice. With an imperceptible smirk, Voris simply nods and moves along.

When he enters the Professor’s office, her rich, sweet fragrance - like Terran cocoa - permeates his Vulcan senses. He welcomes the intoxication as he draws nearer to her desk. 

“A moment,” Professor Burnham says as she sits engrossed with one of the several PADDs scattered around her. 

Stark uses her momentary distraction to draw in her every detail. He notes the deliberate asymmetry of her bangs, as is the current fashion among his female peers of her approximate age. 

Her dress is modest, and yet, informs him of her well-maintained, fully-matured form. Its color - mimicking the gradient of Kylin’the - makes her warm, dark skin glow even under the harsh office lighting. 

Her brows are delicately trimmed, framing her intelligent, brown eyes as they flit from screen to screen. 

Professor Burhman’s subtle but pleasurable aesthetic rivals any Vulcan woman whom Stark knows.

“Door, close.”

They slide shut with a sonorous “swish,” that yanks him from his reverie.

“Greetings, Professor,” he says, finally finding his voice.

“Greetings. I invite you to sit,” she orders without looking up. Stark slowly lowers himself into the chair opposite her desk, subtly drawing in her saccharine scent. He notes a small wood carving of a sehlat sitting on the corner like a faithful guardian. 

“A gift from colleague Voris,” she offers unprompted.

“Are you interested in sehlat, Professor?”

“I believe they make a satisfactory Vulcanian mascot - collectively-focused, protective strength, and unyielding determination...” Stark nods in agreement. Of course such an intelligent beauty such as herself would draw such apt conclusions about _their_ people from such a noble creature. 

Her dark eyes politely meeting his own before they return to his file. “I have reviewed your coursework. It is more than adequate for a recent Learning Center Graduate.”

His stomach flutters in delight, though his face is stony. The accompanying twinge of shame quickly quells his elation as Stark nods in acceptance of her praise.

“What assistance can I provide at this time?”

“May I request additional anecdotal evidence regarding your experience testing the mycelium drive?” he asks. “Starfleet has released - albeit highly redacted - vital records from the Discovery crew exposed to the drive to the Academy. It may be beneficial to recall your physical sensations in the moment, so that we may assign them to fluctuations in your biological systems.”

“For what purpose?” 

The slight purse of her lips forming each word causes Stark’s underarms to perspire.

“Narratives still yield useful, quantifiable data,” he replies, trying to focus on anything other than her finely crafted face. “Our environmental engineers may wish to improve the current stabilizing field to minimize or eliminate these issues, so that all crew members can be at their peak efficiency when they emerge between jumps.”

Though she is human, the Professor’s eyes hold a genuine Vulcan-like curiosity as she ponders his request. It takes each and every ounce of willpower not to return the intensity of her well-measured gaze.

“If, and only if, our current schedule will allow it. If not, I will load an account to the Academy’s archives, pending necessary approvals.”

Vulcans rely on probabilities, not hope. So, he nods even though her promise gives him joy.

“If there is nothing further, I have yet another meeting for which I must prepare,” Professor Burnham said, folding her hands over her desk. “Submit future correspondence to my messaging designation, as my schedule may not permit us to meet again soon.”

Her dark hair bobs pleasantly as she inclines her head to dismiss him. Stark raises and bows before taking his leave. Once, the door slides shut behind him and a wave of relief rolls over him.

Vulcans do not run unless there is a need. Stark forces himself to keep an even stride as he makes his way out to the courtyard. He spots several of his friends lingering beneath the shade of the pillars lining the walk.

“Stark,” one of them calls as he approaches. “How was it?”

“She is the embodiment of the Shin-Ka-Ti,” he whispers, eliciting several sharp breaths from his companions. “Her intellect and curiosity match any Vulcan’s; her refined manners and aesthetic more than compensate for her human ears.” 

“A singular inadequacy that is easily overlooked,” purrs one friend.

“What did she say?” asks another.

“She said my coursework was...more than adequate.”

His comment makes them collectively gasp. 

Stark wants to loop his fingers around theirs, forming a chain, so that they can share in his feelings of purest adoration.

But before he can propose it, the sound of soft footfalls, deliberate and alerting, capture their attention. They turn and spot a figure approaching from shadows of a far off column. 

He is tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed aggressively in an Off-Worlder style. He wears pants made of rough that grate in their ears as he strides towards them and his shirt sports - clearly meant for children - an obnoxious caricature of a targ. His hair is untamed but comes to an end as a thick braid lays across his chest like the tail of an aylak. But most abhorrently of all, this stranger had a pair of overwhelmingly pink sun-shades lay across his eyes.

“Easy, young brothers,” the interloper says, before they can call for his removal. “I overheard your little chat. We may have a common interest…”

If it were not for his ears and his accent, Stark would have thought him to be a v'tosh ka'tur. Or an ak’spra? Or worst of all, a Ktorr Skann...

“Perhaps you misheard, _ri-fainusu,_ ” a companion replies icily. “As we surely have nothing in common with you.”

Then, the V'tosh ka'tur does the unthinkable - he chuckles. _Openly._ Stark and the friends do their best not to recoil at the sound. His eyes search the area, fearing others might have heard and see them together. As the deviant’s laughter subsides, he pulls a PADD from his cracked-leather satchel hanging from his hips. 

“Please, have a look at this special, exclusive merchandise…!” he announces, holding the PADD aloft. Curiosity winning over everything else, they huddle together for a closer viewing. 

The V'tosh ka'tur has pictures - intimate pictures of Professor Michael Burnham. And even rarer, she is slightly younger in these sets…! Stark’s satchel strap creaks audibly in his fist. 

In one, she is wearing her VSA graduation uniform while holding a well-thrown tea cup in her slight hands (“It rests against her lips softly…”). In another, she wanders the edge of the Forge as she gently strokes the fur of an elderly sehlat (“The gods favor that beast…”). And of his favorite - Burnham in her Starfleet Cadet Uniform as she descends from a transporter to visit Ambassador Sarek and his wife (“... the phaser on her hip…”).

“Highly encrypted to prevent others’ prying eyes,” the V'tosh ka'tur voice breaks through their chatter. “Received only through a special access portal with an accompanying code.”

“What do you want?” Stark nearly growls through his clenched teeth.

“Federation Credits only, brothers…” he returns silkily, with a smile that would make a Klingon’s stomach turn. “100 per set, each set holds three. 998 for ten sets.”

“Even you would make a Ferengi feel shame,” a friend hisses. But Stark quiets his protests when Stark steps forward. Reaching into his own purse, the young Vulcan places several Federation Credit cards into the V'tosh ka'tur' outstretched hand. He lets out a low whistle that makes the hairs on Stark’s nape rise as he verifies their balances.

“You’ve certainly got the right stuff kid,” the V'tosh ka'tur replies, waggling a brow. He holds the PADD toward Stark and his friends. “Pick your poison…”

~~~

Michael’s coming home is Amanda’s favorite part of the day. After greeting Sarek in his study, her daughter would retreat to the bottom of the stairs to shed everything Vulcan. First, she pulls her wig from her head, freeing her beautiful bloom of dark curls. Then, she pries her feet from those pinched boots and let’s her toes unfurl across the carpet. Lastly, Michael’s stance becomes looser, languid - letting all of the rigidness seep out of her. 

“Lhm’ta or Kh’aa, darling?” Amanda offers, holding up a tray of tea.

“Kh’aa, please and thank you...” Michael smiles, taking a cup.

“Another long day?”

“All days are long in a system with three suns, Mom.” They laugh. “Well, I submitted more publications for review. Taught three classes. Oh, Voris _and_ Stamets visited me today. Well, honestly, they are the only ones that really do...”

“How is Paul adjusting as a visiting Professor?”

“Well enough, but I think he did underestimate how persistent Vulcans can be in the pursuit of knowledge. He has a mile long line during office hours, unlike mine… How was yours?” 

“Fantastic,” she replies with a smile. “I managed to finish a few of the peskier Vulcan translations for the Cultural Center. And your father _finally_ got the incinerator fixed!”

“Good, because I swear B’aht looked as if he would cry-”

Amanda catches Michael’s hands. “Oh, not here, dear. We have a guest arriving for dinner.”

“Then, should I…?” her daughter pauses mid-sentence, frantically shaking out her wig. Amanda stills her hands again. 

“No need to put on any airs with this one. Trust me,” she says reassuringly. “But why not go and relax in your room for now? We’ll entertain them until then.”

Michael gives her a curious look but obediently trots up the stairs to her room without further comment. Amanda watches her daughter go with a small smile, before she makes her way to Sarek’s study. 

It immediately fades when she enters.

“Lhm’ta,” Sarek comments as she deposits the unclaimed tea in front of him. He reaches for it and she pulls it just out of reach. He meets her eyes which are blazing with quiet fury. 

“Are you sure about this?” she asks in a measured tone. “We had to _beg_ Michael to stay, and now this latest scheme may chase her off-”

“Vulcans do not scheme-”

“I am not talking about all Vulcans; I am talking about _you and our son_.”

Sarek opted to drink his least favorite tea and avoid her pointed stare. 

“He will serve or he will leave,” he explains, between sips. “Either outcome is acceptable.”

Amanda gathers all of her resolve not to smash the tray over his head.

“Well, he is late. Didn’t he take the transport from the station?”

“It seems he did not,” Sarek returns, setting the Lhm’ta on the desk and nudging it away. “But our son is more than capable of finding his own way home…”

A shriek rings out in the direction of the bedrooms. Her husband is already on his feet and through the study’s door before Amanda can blink. She chases after him, calling for her daughter as Sarek bounds up the stairs three at a time.

Thankfully, they find Michael just outside of her room - dressed in her bathrobe and in a Suss Mahna stance.

“There’s someone in my room…!” she half-whispers, eyes wide with fear.

Sarek gently moves her aside and enters her bedroom. Michael, with her fists ready, and Amanda, with her tea tray as a shield, are right on his heels. 

When they enter, she is greeted with the sight of a fully grown Vulcan male lying on his stomach across their daughter’s bed. They all falter as the potent stench of Klingon _chech'tluth_ surrounds them. She feels as if she would vomit on the spot but, thankfully, her husband recovers. He stalks over to the bed and, in one fluid motion, yanks the intruder onto the floor.

The strange Vulcan hits the ground with a meaty thud, emitting a pained groan. 

“Is...is he wearing a child’s Toby the Targ shirt?” Michael asks from just over Amanda’s shoulder. 

“Daughter,” Sarek says, his anger all too apparent in the twitch of his brow. “I am sure you remember me mentioning your older brother...”

Michael lowers Amanda’s tray before taking several measured steps towards their overly inebriated guest.

“S-Sybok…?” she asks, crouching down to brush back the sweaty bangs obscuring his face. Wrinkles frame his un-Vulcan like eyes, which are red-rimmed and sparkling with emotion.

“Hey there, Micky...” Sybok grunts, tugging at her robe’s hem with liquor stained hand. “Very nice.”

~~~

Spock’s shift ended an hour ago, but he knew these reports would not file themselves. Suddenly, he freezes mid-keystroke as an icy shiver violently races up his spine. He gasps softly, slamming his hands onto his panel as his knees buckle. Number One is at his side in an instant and helps him into the nearest seat.

“You look greener than usual...” Una comments, tilting her dark head. “Are you alright, kid?”

“Do you need to go to Sick Bay, Lieutenant?” Captain Pike asks. His burrow furrows as their captain quickly tallies something on his fingers. “Wait, it isn’t…. _that time_?”

“No, it is not _that_ , sir...” Spock grumbles, wrapping his arms around himself. “Though I do feel something is amiss on Vulcan…as if an evil presence surrounds my family...” 

Una and Pike exchange sidelong glances.

“That’s a little bit dramatic, don’tcha think?” his Captain chuckles weakly. He feels Pike’s hand on his shoulder, helping him to stand. “Let’s just get you back to your quarters and give your mom a call, ok?”

Spock nods, letting his Captain lead the way.

~~~

“I, uh, ran into some old, non-Vulcan friends at the station and we decided to go to an Off-Worlder bar to celebrate,” Sybok explains. He pauses momentarily to somehow produce yet another flask of _chech'tluth._ “But, I think I may have had one too many.”

“Evidently,” grumbles Amanda.

“Jesus…” Michael utters fearfully in agreement. “How did you even get in here?! No one saw you come in…”

“He has...his ways…” Sarek comments, sounding exasperated.

  
Sybok gives them an award-winning smile. 

“Mother, Micky - are you two not the epitome of beauty?” he whistles. “I see now why father prefers humans to Vulcans. Our women are so sinewy, dry-”

Sarek wrests the flask from his eldest’s grasp, cutting off his son on several different levels.

“Your words and behavior are illogical and disrespectful. If you continue to stay here, they will no longer be tolerated,” he scolds. “Furthermore, I explicitly stated that your consumption of controlled substances while residing in our family home is not permitted. Your continued disrespect will result in cancellation of your requests, will result in your immediate expulsion from this home, and will force her Lady to revoke her support.”

Both wife and daughter are stunned as she had never heard Sarek say much, so quickly in their entire lives.

Sybok holds up his now empty hands in mock surrender. 

“What _requests_?” she hears Amanda ask, pulling her from her daze. “Sybok, I thought you only needed money?”

Their mother turns and gives Sarek a look that could wither an entire Varalinth from branch to root before stalking off in the direction of his study. He has no other option than to follow her.

“Clean yourself up and behave,” Sarek orders Sybok as he leaves. Then, more evenly, he says to Michael: “Please eat. Your mother and I may be engaged for a while.”

  
  


So, she (mostly) eats dinner alone. Sybok - freshly showered and smelling exponentially better - joins her as she helps herself to more ulan soup.

“I am terribly sorry, Micky,” he purrs, sliding into his seat. “In my state, I confused our rooms.”

Her Vulcan training taking over, Michael returns his apology with a polite nod. It is late and she still has papers to review - not to mention - thoroughly _chech'tluth_ soiled bed sheets that she must burn. She gathers her dishes and moves over to the sanitation area to clean them. 

Sybok nudges her side and casts her a mischievous smile, taking her dishes from her. It is then that Michael is made aware of exactly how _massive_ he is as she watches him load the sanitizer. 

His full height potentially rivals Spock’s; his build is stockier than most Vulcans; his hair is like a chkariya’s nest - not a single strand is willing to lay flat.

“So, are you bonded?” he asks, pulling her from her thoughts and into a side-long hug.

“To whom? A Vulcan?” Michael chuckles incredulously. “They are not interested…” 

“Vulcan men are just like all other men…! If he would just appeal to their lust for knowledge and their love of logic, Sarek could find you a mate. Surely, one of them will succumb to the principles of scientific replicability, Micky-”

“You don’t know _what_ I like and my name is Michael,” she corrects him. And Sybok ignores her and continues:

“- and pay an enormous bride price just to prove that Spock is more than an anomaly.” 

“I decline your offer as interspecies mixing is more commonplace here now,” Michael returns coldly, prying herself from his grip. “And, by the way, no one in this family is an experiment.”

“Are you sure Sarek is aware of that?”

Vulcan manners be damned - she burns with anger and lets her face show it. Sybok, thankfully, possesses the capacity to look ashamed for a moment. He scratches nervously at his stubble-covered chin as he roots around in his vest pocket.

“Bad joke... A peace offering?” he attempts, holding up a small satchel inches from her face. “It’s high-grade Gal-en-du'un. We could sit out in the garden and smok-” 

Michael snatches it before he can finish and quickly retreats to her room.

~~~

Suss Manha practiced, papers reviewed, grades reported, notes annotated, sheets changed, soiled ones incinerated. 

Michael sits on the window seat in her sleeping gown, sending long blooms of smoke along the evening breeze into the sky. 

Like her mood, T’khut is full. It shines brightly even through the clouds that threaten to overtake it. Michael gazes at him, basking in the light casting shadows across her balcony. She used to look at him almost every night with Grudge nestled in her lap while Book complained about Ni’Var - Vulcan’s dustiness. A nostalgic smile becomes a simper before fading into a frown.

A faint rustling from the garden hedges beneath her room earns her attention. She peers over the railing and finds nothing stirring below.

A series of pings emit from the holocomm by her desk.

“ID?” Michael calls between puffs. The stars begin to dance in her sight and she carefully weighs if her current state of inebriation is sufficient enough to entertain another guest.

“Caller: Grayson-S’chn T’gai, Spock.”

“Audio only.”

“I have accumulated 6.752 months of unused leave, Michael,” he announces, without greeting her. “I can return home within two cycles. Why no video? I demand visual confirmation of your well-being.”

“So, I guess you’ve heard the news,” she returns with a stilted laugh. “Also, greetings, little brother. How are you?”

“Concerned. My mother confirmed Sybok’s returned.”

Michael snorts and rolls her eyes. “I can handle him, Spo-”

“Sister,” he interrupts her. “I believed we achieved an understanding about _your_ being more receptive to others’ assistance. Sybok is deeply troubled.”

(Who isn’t?)

She puts the last of the Gal-en-du'un to her lips and smokes it until it is a burning nub between her fingers. 

“Look, Sybok was declared only a V'tosh ka'tur when I had only just started living here and, then was gone like a week later,” she says, expertly tossing the butt into the disposal receptacle by her desk. “I don’t even understand why he was kicked out in the first place, Spock...”

There is a brief pause. She can hear him considering her request.

“His obsession, which led him to be exiled, has also depleted all of his finances and favors,” her brother begins slowly.

“What obsession?”

Michael could literally hear Spock setting his jaw. 

“With finding Sha Ka Ree.”

If Michael thinks if she isn’t high before, she is now. Did he just say what she thinks he said? From what she could remember from her spirituality lectures, Sha Ka Ree was the Vulcan equivalent of the human’s Shangri’La - a mystical paradise, its location hidden and unknown. But what she could not grasp is why Sybok, practically a Vulcan prince, would throw everything away to chase after a fairytale. 

Michael rubs her temples. This was becoming too complicated, too quickly.

“Until I really know what’s going on, I’ll keep my doors locked,” she says as her room begins to slowly whorl around her. “But, if anything happens, I’ll call. Promise. So, just stay put for now, please.”

He sighs from behind the blacked-out screen. “Understood. I will remain with the Enterprise for now. Goodnight, Michael.”

“Night.”

The call ends and the screen blinks away. Bonelessly, she flops onto her bed. Through the fog of impending sleep and Gal-en-du'un, Michael’s eyes fall shut as the Watcher’s light wanes over her balcony.

~~~

Ahn stifles another yawn. She and B’aht are both exhausted after spending three days fighting with the food replicator, only for the laundry unit to turn the washroom into a bubble bath. Her partner gives her a lazy ta'al as he slips into his room. But, Ahn has a bit more to go. 

As she passes by Sybok’s room, she spots his shadow cutting back and forth across the light emanating from beneath his door. She can hear him pacing, speaking in a hushed tone that is even too difficult for her to hear.

Wrestling between her desire to sleep and her own curiosity, Ahn presses herself against the wall. 

“...sold...!” she hears Sybok crow, eliciting what sounded like cheering. However, it is mechanical sounding, like ambient noise caught in a disposal unit. She focuses on the voices on the other side. One by one they become more clear: 

“...favorite animal…”

“...Saurian brandy?”

“...lecture schedule? Office hours…?”

She hears Sybok laugh and the chatter dies away.

“One at a time,” he chides. “First, I should have some nice sets for tomorrow, but they’ll cost extra for same day access. Yes, they will feature more close-ups. As for the other items, I will need time to research and-”

Suddenly, the door wrenches open and, before Ahn can blink, her master’s son half-drags her inside. She stumbles a bit but is able to catch herself. Blacked-out, muted comm screens cover almost every inch of his walls. 

“Sir, I-” 

Sybok raises a hand and she goes quiet. With a snap, his screens vanish instantly. He then begins to approach her, sporting that unsettlingly human smile.

“Is there a problem, sir?” she returns evenly. He stops within arm’s length of her, but with his looming height

“Not at all. But, you have been with Sarek for a long time, Ahn?”

She nods slowly, unsure of where he is going. It is true that she and B’aht have served Lady Amanda since she first arrived on Vulcan as Sarek’s wife.

“Then, you might be able to assist me,” he explains. “Since my return, I have found a significant gap in necessary information pertaining to certain members in my own family. However, this gap is most pronounced between myself and my younger sister - Michael.”

“Yes, when she arrived, you left the family home.”

“I did not leave - I was ‘erased,’” Sybok states, his smile waning. “However, yes, I do not know very much about her. We only spent a little under a month together, and even then, Michael spent most of that time in self-imposed isolation due to her trauma.”

Ahn exhales softly. A young Michael - skittish and fearful like a new born aylak - was prone to locking herself in her room. However, Master Sarek thought it best to shield her (and Spock) from the chaos surrounding his expulsion. At the same time, her master did not want to portray the idea that his eldest was being replaced (Though that is literally what happened…). 

However, Sybok is a true son of Sarek and of Vulcan again. Logically, he has the right to know some information about his own family, but to what degree is what troubles Ahn. 

“What is it that you wish to know?” she sighs in resignation. 

“We can begin with something simple...” Sybok purrs. “Tell me, does Michael like sehlats…?” 

~~~

Her next lecture is not for two cycles. Normally, she would use this time to catch up on her Xenoanthropological journals and finish a few articles of her own, but today, she has other - more fun - plans.

After Michael showers, she decides to wear a dark green dress that Sarek ordered as a gift for her return and pairs it with her comfortable, brown boots. Her wig secured, she makes her way to the foyer. 

“Time for breakfast?” she hears Amanda ask as she descends the stairs. She finds her mother waiting with a shawl and a hopeful look. “Sarek left with Sybok this morning. He starts his new job today.”

“I’m really sorry but I’m running late…”

“It was worth a shot,” Amanda quickly kisses her goodbye. “I had B’aht call for a transporter. It’s already outside.”

“Thanks! I’ll be back for dinner, I promise.”

Michael leaves for ShiKahr’s Off-Worlder Quarter. It is a massive hodge-podge of cultures, reflected in everything from its teems streets and cobbled-together buildings. A few beings of all kinds, cat-call her as she descends from her ride, but she maintains her Vulcanian focus, her back straight. Michael winds her way through the busy streets until she spots her target, sitting on a bench out of a coffee house.

Tilly wears a Vulcan wrap-jacket with an assortment of colorful pins lining the lapel; her matching pants shorn into shorts, leaving a rough hem around her thighs. She also sports a pair of Orion sandals with iridescent laces running along her calves. Tilly waves her arms wildly as she approaches, causing her fire-red, haphazardly piled hair to flop about. 

She looks delightfully insane.

“Woah, I almost didn’t recognize you…!” Tilly gasps, twisting her hands she catches herself from reaching out. “I mean, if I didn’t see your ears, you’d be like 5000% Vulcan. And you look like a princess…!”

“Mathematically impossible, but your comments are noted.”

“Even your accent is so cute…!” her friend practically squeals. “How about me? How do I look? I just kept seeing so many cute things and I, like, could not just _not_ buy them along the way.”

“Creative,” Michael replies, minutely twitching the corners of her mouth. Tilly laughs.

“So, Po discovered this A-MAZ-ING cafe with the most deelish iced Raktajino outside of Klingon space-space~! And I thought we should try it next time I got a chance for shore leave on Vulcan~!”

“How apt as you have a penchant to consume a number of caffeinated beverages daily.”

They enter the cafe and take a seat. Michael notes that nearly every level surface is decorated with colorful plants and equally colorful pottery. The heady scent of caffeine makes her eyes water - almost. 

Their Tellarite waiter does a double-take at the both of them, head swiveling as he attempts to process their appearance. Tilly orders four iced Raktajinos (“Three for me, one for you!”) and Michael ponders internally about her friend’s inevitable torrent of hyperactivity.

“Correction - only two.”

“Awwww....”

“Consuming more than one taxes the human nervous system.”

The waiter nods and leaves.

“So…” Tilly starts, leaning forward in her seat. “How’s it going?”

“Work is going well. The VSA has approved more in-field studies for some of my classes and-”

“No, not work~!” she sing-songs. “I meant, any new friends on your romantic roster?”

Before Michael could reply, a polite cough caught their attention. She turns in her seat and finds Sybok standing just behind her.

She barely recognizes him. Sybok’s hair is now trimmed into the typical, bowlcut style; his beard is gone, revealing a handsome face; and he wears an VSA archivist uniform instead of a liquor-stained child’s tee. 

Michael struggles to keep her expression neutral as he stares down at her with a Cheshire-grin. It pains her that someone who looked so much like Sarek, could be so...vulgar. 

“Greetings sister and sister’s friend!” he chirps, eyes twinkling with his mischief (again). “Our mother mentioned that you were out having fun today...”

“M-mother? You guys share a mom? Your Amanda Grayson mom-mom?” she heard Tilly asking. “S-so, this guy is like-”

“Sylvia, this is my elder brother Sybok.”

“ _Another hot, secret brother?!?I”_ mouths Tilly as Sybok takes her hand and kisses it. Michael bites the inside of her cheek to keep from kicking him in the shin.

“For what reason are you here?”

“Happy hour,” Sybok replies, releasing Tilly’s hand. “A new Orion-owned bar just opened around the corner and I hear they serve Terran whiskey.”

“But, _our_ Father said-”

“-I could not drink _in_ the home, little sister. He did not say anything about drinking while _outside_ of the home...”

Michael glares at him. Sybok returns it with that damned smile. Their standoff only ends when the waiter brings their order. He shuffles away, looking horrified by an emotive Vulcan and an emotionless human.

“Be safe, ladies,” he announces, turning on his heels to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow...maybe.”

“Then, will I inform our parents that you will not be returning home for the evening?” she calls after him. Sybok gives her a thumbs-up before exiting.

“Yikes, he’s, um, really attractive??? God, his teeth are like super white - blindingly white. Is he like full Vulcan or is he mixed like Spock? That doesn’t matter because he's really hot. Not that him being hot as anything to do with like what percentage Vulcan he is or isn’t because like there are so many attractive beings regardless of their genetic makeup and origin-”

“Tilly,” Michael says firmly.

Her friend shrinks down into her seat as she takes hold of her cup.

“D-does he play in a band...?” 

Michael gives her her best Vulcanian death stare.

“Drink your Raktajino, Tilly…”

Afterwards, they shop. Michael selects fabric for a new dress at her tailor (“Replicated clothing makes me itch…”), while Tilly purchases a bright yellow, wide brimmed, El-Aurian hat. It clashes with her hair but yet still “works.” 

They head to the farmers’ market next, where Michael grabs up some freshly cut Kh’aa leaves at a steal. As they travel the stalls, Tilly eats as many free samples as she can until they are forced to rest on a nearby bench. 

When she recovers, they discover a bookstore that is literally a hole-in-the wall. Michael finds a copy of Shaw’s Pygmalion translated into Vulcan, which she thought would make an ironic gift for Sarek. She also finds a copy of Pride & Prejudice and a long-sought after volume of _Vulcan Love Slave_.

Michael immediately opens it: 

_Sip by sip, the Terran hot chocolate burned away T’Lana’s logical control. She soon found her dress to be confining against her smoldering flesh, unable to stop the young human as he loosed the first button. By the fifth, she was tearing her dress away, reveal her heaving-_

“Greetings, Professor Burnham.”

She glances upward and sees a familiar face: Stark, a young VSA student in her Introductory Xenoanthropology course.

“Greetings,” Michael says, quickly hiding the book behind her back. “Searching ancient texts for knowledge?”

“Yes.”

“Then, I will not interfere.” 

As she moves to step around him, Stark steps in front of her.

“Explain your actions.”

“There is a suspicious person waving at you.” 

She peers to where he points over his shoulder and sees Tilly. She struggles to balance a tower of books in her arms and her new hat on her head while trying to beckon for help.

Michael suppresses a sigh.

“That person is a Starfleet Ensign who I have been tasked with escorting today.”

Stark - clearly not convinced as he gives Tilly and her unfortunate outfit another look - nods and steps aside.. 

“Many are aware of your history with the Logic Extremists,” he whispers to her as she passes. “Professor, it would be a waste, if you were harmed.”

“That is...valid...” she replies slowly, squirming inwardly under his intense stare. 

“Live long and prosper, Professor Burnham.”

“Live long and prosper, Stark.”

The young Vulcan nods again and she watches him go.

After purchasing their books, the women make their way outside to hail a transporter for Tilly to take her to the docks. The attendant loads her friend’s purchases in the trunk, so that they can say their goodbyes.

“I had so much fun!” Tilly cries, clutching her hat to her chest. “I’ll tell Saru and the others you’re doing great and that you have another hot, secret brother-”

“Don’t do _that_...” Michael groans, too tired to hide her exasperation. “But, yes, please tell the crew that I miss them.” She returns Tilly’s ta'al as she climbs into the cab.

Evening is only beginning and her burden is light, so Michael decides to explore a bit more. She finds a candy shop near the earlier coffee house. It has rare Romulan Tree candies in stock. Curious, Michael picks out some flavors. 

A drunk and ranting Andorian male stumbles out from the bar door, earning her attention. She watches at the alien teeters wildly on unsteady legs, being poorly supported by an equally intoxicated Orion female and -

“Sybok…!” Michael hisses under her breath. Sliding some credits on the counter, she shoves her treats into her dress pocket and rushes out. She ducks behind a convenience kiosk to watch them.

Her brother chats cheerfully with the Orion while the Andorian empties his guts into a nearby waste receptacle. As they laugh at his self-imposed suffering, a petite, cloaked stranger approaches Sybok. At first, she thinks they are a peacekeeper, but then Sybok greets him with a handshake. As their hands part, Michael spies a cylindrical object in her brother’s fist, before he stuffs it into his coat pocket.

“...can’t handle his liquor this one…”

“...here are the new… from today...” 

She struggles to hear what they are saying, but cannot hear anything over the vomiting Andorian and Orion’s laughter.

“Hey, either buy something or fuck right the fuck off!” shouts the kiosk’s owner, as he throws a rotten tolik at her feet. Michael narrowly avoids being hit as she stumbles backwards into the street. 

Exposed, she and Sybok lock eyes instantly. His friends pay her no mind as they stagger back inside the bar, while the stranger - whom Michael swears has familiar, pointed ears - jogs off.

“Come to play?” she hears Sybok tease as she watches him stroll towards her like a le-matya. Michael stands tall, keeping her face neutral. “Shouldn’t good Vulcan children be home at this late hour?”

“By your logic, then we _both_ should return home,” she returns coolly. 

He offers her an arm.

“Shall we, _Micky_?”

Her throat burning with humiliation, Michael accepts. 

~~~

Their parents are pleased that they return on time and together. So much so that Sarek invites Sybok to “evaluate” his first day at work in his study over some Kh’aa before final meal. 

Michael cannot bring herself to shed her Vulcanness just yet. So, she retreats to the garden to dry her tea leaves for tomorrow. Amanda joins her, bringing tea and motherly concern. 

“Today went well,” she begins, clipping branches to the line. “But we did run into Sybok…”

“And what was he doing all the way out there?”

“Attending happy hour.”

A gentle Forge wind carries her mother’s sighs.

“He’s got demons that one,” Amanda mutters, turning her cup over with worried hands. “But he better tame them quickly because Sarek’s entire Vulcan ass is on the line...”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about that,” Michael pauses in her task, clutching a bunch of Kh’aa to her chest. “If _Ktorr Skann_ means your records are literally erased from Vulcan society, how was Father able to reinstate someone who technically no longer exists?”

Her mother sets her jaw as her bright eyes dart between her daughter and her cup. After what feels like a lifetime, she says: “MasterT’Sai backed Sarek’s request.”

“She is almost as p-powerful as High Command...” Michael stammers in shock, wide eyed. “How? Why?” 

Amanda tilted her head in thought.

“I only know what Sarek has been willing to tell me,” she explains. “And even then, I am not sure if he knows the truth himself either. But, T’Sai knew Sybok’s mother, the late High Master of Gol and Sarek’s first wife, T’Rea,” Amanda hesitates, tapping her nails against the ceramic. Sighing, she continues: “T’Rea’s family would not let her begin her studies without producing an heir first. So, she conceived Sybok with Sarek during his, uh, Pon Farr at the time.”

Michael wrinkled her nose, causing her mother to laugh.

“As a Xenoanthropologist, I thought you’d be interested-”

“Come on, not in _that_...!”

“Fair enough,” she concedes. “But, she pretty much abandoned all emotion before Sybok was born. And as the High Master, she wasn’t capable of being a mother or wife. T’Rea divorced Sarek and then let Sybok be raised by Master T’Sai and others in the temple.”

“But why not by Sarek?”

Amanda’s expression was that of quiet pain. The lines in her face deepen as she draws in a shaky, soft breath. Her eyes being to shine, wet with the threat of oncoming tears:

“He did not know Sybok existed until he was five. T’Rea kept their son a secret from him...” 

To Michael the thought of her own Sarek - her father who took in a strange human orphan - unintentionally abandoning his own, fully Vulcan son made her stomach turn. She swallows thickly against the knot building in her throat. How he must have felt to learn that 

_It must have hurt, knowing that neither parent truly wanted him. Then, why come running back to Sarek at all?_ she thinks to herself.

Suddenly, her father appears at the patio door, announcing that their meal will be ready in an hour. Amanda offers to hang the rest of the leaves, so Michael can change. Taking her up on it, she makes her way back inside. She leaves the copy of Pygmalion outside of Sarek’s study door before heading to her room. 

Her wig placed on her headdress with the others and her dress hung back in her closet, Michael strolls into her bathroom. She opts for a traditional shower. The water is scalding against her skin but it melts away the tension from her body.

When she emerges, Michael finds Sybok examining the items on her desk. He has his back to her, throwing a quick braid onto her Vulcan wig.

“I cannot get rid of you today,” she sighs loudly. 

“You don’t decorate much do you?” he calls to her, too busy examining a set of Vulcan animal miniatures. Michael frowns. Amanda bought them for her after their recent trip to the conservatory. “It’s all work, work, work…”

“How did you get in here _again_?!” she snaps, stalking towards him.

“I climbed the nah’ru between our balconies. It’s how I avoided friends I owed money to, chores from Amanda, circumvented Sarek’s curfews-”

Michael snatches the sehlat from his hands before he can finish and sets it on her desk with a firm tap.

“I don’t care,” she says coolly. She folds her arms across her chest, closing the gap between them as she sizes him up. “Do not do it again.”

Sybok finally looks down at her and, for once, he is not smiling. He looks thoroughly exhausted - all the fun from the bar drawn out of him. The lines framing his eyes and mouth are deep set, emphasized by his clean face and Vulcan bowlcut. 

Michael’s anger gives way to pity and she feels shame. The only thing she wants to feel is anger after Sybok has - once again - violated her privacy.

But his look haunts her because she knows it so well. She wore it when Sarek ordered Ahn to cut and straighten her hair. She wore it when Amanda helped her into her scratchy school uniform for the Learning Center. She wore it when her tutor corrected her Vulcan by digging his fingers into her chin as she stammered through a conjugation exercise (He later was arrested as an informant behind the bombing.).

Slowly, he places his hands on her shoulders, pulling her closer.

“Little sister, I am really sorry…” Sybok apologizes. His eyes are soft and seeking. “I know that my abrupt return has not been easy. And it’s even harder for me now...because I can see straight down the top of your robe when we stand like this-”

Michael strikes out with her palm at his face, but her brother is a bit quicker. He manages to stumble backward out of her reach.

“Get out!” she shouts, pulling her robe higher on her neck.

Grinning like a mad man, he trots off through her balcony windows. Michael watches him, burning with renewed rage, as Sybok hoists himself up onto the railings.

“And dinner is ready, by the way,” he calls to her before tumbling backward into the darkness.

~~~

Vulcans have emotions, despite what they allow others to think. The capacity for love exists in their austerity. And Sarek knows that more than anyone. As he eats dinner with his family, his heart is full. 

Sybok recounts his first day to Amanda. He is happy that at least one of his sons wants to return home. He is happy that his eldest’s manners are improving and that he is getting along well with his work at the VSA archives.

And then, there is Michael who is, he admits selfishly to himself, his favorite. Of course he loves his sons but despite his many, many, many mistakes, she is the only one that still believes in him.

Tonight, she is rather quiet which is unfortunate because Sarek loves to listen to her go on about her work. Last month, Michael had received honors for a piece that explored linguistic and thematic commonalities between Hirogen and Orion myths and modern astrological navigation. Her study revealed that their stories served as a lost method of celestial navigation, which led the Vulcan Expeditionary Group to uncover rare mineral finds across the Beta Quadrant.

If he could laugh at the irony, Sarek would.

His comm pings, stealing him away from his thoughts. 

“ID,” he calls out.

“Guard, front gate: Ahn.”

“Audio only.”

“Sir,” Ahn’s firm voice filters in over the comm.

“Proceed.”

“You have a delivery. B’aht is taking it to the garden patio right now, sir.”

Sarek’s right brow twitches minutely. He gestures to the others to continue with their meal as he rises to leave. But they ignore him (of course) and follow him to the garden. As the evening lights come on, he spots their guard coming around the hedge, guiding a small, brown sehlat along with him. It is adorably clumsy - tripping every few steps on its oversized paws.

“What is this?” Sarek asks. 

“It’s beyond precious, is what…!” he hears Amanda squeal. She crouches down, taking its tiny paws into her own hands. 

“It is a gift for your daughter, sir,” B’aht explains over Amanda’s cooing. He produces a small holocard and presents it to Sarek before excusing himself. As he takes it, neatly written Vulcan scrawl immediately projects itself into the air:

_To honor your daughter’s contributions towards my progeny’s recent successful expedition._

_May her research continue to serve our families and Vulcan’s in future endeavors._

The gift was one thing. But the sender was another. Sarek’s fingers almost cracked the screen as he stared down at the name.

“Is this a prank, Sybok?” Michael grouses. “Is this why you were in my room _again_?”

“Sybok!” scolds Amanda.

“It’s not me,” his eldest protests. “And I was only in her room because you told me to get her for dinner.”

“He speaks the truth,” Sarek speaks, finally finding his voice again.

Silence, underscored by the soft mewling of the little sehlat as it chews on his wife’s shawl, falls over them.

Without warning, Amanda rockets on to her feet, causing the pup to tumble from her lap with a yelp. Michael and Sybok help the poor thing back up, just as his wife takes Sarek by his hands.

“Darling,” Amanda says softly, their fingers intertwining. “Do you understand what this means?”

“Yes…” he utters, ice filling his gut despite the warmth radiating through their bond. “Our daughter is being courted.”

~~~

In all of their years together, Pike has never successfully landed a blow on his Lieutenant during combat training. 

That was, until today as he flips Spock over shoulder and onto the mat. 

“Are you ok?” Pike asks as he lays there stunned, staring at the ceiling as if he has seen a ghost. He waves his hands in front of Spock’s face until he finally blinks up at him.

“No, sir...” his Lieutenant replies. “...I think that I am not….”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd on 3/11/2021. I actually updated BOTH Chapter 1 and 2. I removed a bit from Chapter 1 about WHO sent the sehlat. And then, I added additional sections/bits to Chapter 2, to make it flow better and to help with story in later chapters.

**2.**

_His kisses are soft - desperate - as her body begins to dissipate like the icy tail of a comet. She is yanked away from his embrace, rematerialized and left distraught on a random M-class moon. Her love is nothing more than the scent of leather oil and a few strands of Grudge’s fur on her tear-stained cheeks._

_Tilly’s warmth, while welcomed, is not the same. What Michael wants - what she wishes for was a chance to move forward together in this strange, new future Time flung them into._

_But her mother also told her that Time was a living, breathing thing. She also said that it was cruel and uncaring. Michael learns this firsthand as she watches helplessly as Time closes the rift overhead, until everything she ever wished for is swallowed up and lost._

_Michael folds in on herself and-_

I-Chaya, Jr. tumbles from her arms and his mother begins to thrash, sending her human things to the floor with an obnoxious clatter. With a quiet growl, he carefully climbs over her back and reclaims his spot under her chin.

“Book...for me...” she mutters, gently wrapping her arms around him. I-Chaya cannot understand her human tongue but he enjoys her embrace all the same. He rests a paw against her cheek, and holds it there until she stops shaking. The last sob dissolves into a sigh. Soon his breathing falls in time with hers, and they drift off together.

~~~

The hour is late, even for Vulcans. But Sarek’s work is never done. 

He sighs. 

Though this bride price could purchase a very small, M-class moon, Michael dismisses him like the other 84.67532% of her suitors. And Matriarch T’Sehn reminds of this during their earlier call. 

Sarek groans. There are many powerful, influential Vulcans interested in a bond with their daughter: two Starfleet vice admirals, several under-council members, Expedition Group members, interstellar traders, colony leaders. And yet, Michael passes over each one like old plomeek broth. 

Sarek grumbles, rubbing his greying temples. Why is it that his children never make _anything_ easy for him…? 

“Because you have never made anything easy for _them_ , darling,” his wife calls to him. Sarek looks up and watches her stroll into his study, tea tray in hand. He is only mildly annoyed that he forgot to close his end of the bond. 

Amanda rests her tray on the edge of his desk, as she reaches upward to flip through the cloud of profiles. “How goes the search?”

“Very poorly,” he replies, leaning over his desk to grab up his tea. But just as he is about to take it, she shifts the tray to her opposite hand. Sarek is in no mood for her teasing.

“Honestly, it is a miracle there is anyone left at all...” she grumbles, shifting the tray again he makes another grab at it. 

“Michael is very...stringent,” he states, noting that her expression grows darker with each rejected profile. Distractedly, Amanda sets his tea on top of his thoroughly annotated copy of _Pygmalion_. Sarek quickly grabs it up, so it would not leave a ring on its cover. 

“If she is going to turn down every offer, what is the logic in continuing…?!” she exclaims, flopping into the nearest chair. “ 

“Yes, Matriarch T’Sehn also shared similar concerns with me,” he mutters between sips. His wife shudders visibly, clutching her tray against her ample, aproned chest as she makes a face like she just ate old tolik fruit. “I would rather they not come to conflict as they are both very...determined persons.”

Just as Amanda is about to speak, the house’s comm pings. 

“ID?”

“Caller: Grayson-S’chn T’gai, Spock.”

Sarek summons a privacy screen for himself, so he can enjoy their little melodrama and drink his tea in (relative) peace. The Kh'aa warms his belly as Spock comes into view. His face is unmoved, immutable like the proper Vulcan he had raised him to be.Though his hair is a bit long, he looks good. Healthy. Happy...

“Hello, mother,” Spock says. “Captain Pike sends his greetings.” 

“Thank you, my little star,” Amanda replies, her sweet smile fading from her lovely face. “Now, please come home and talk some sense into your sister.” He watches his son sigh at his mother’s abruptness and Sarek cannot help be reminded of how alike they are.

“For once, Michael is being logical, mother,” counters Spock. “She needs a Vulcan bondmate that will understand her human social-emotional needs and will have a high-degree for tolerance for her stubbornness.”

“And why could that bondmate not be T’Amar, Under-Chief for the Vulcan Defense Force. Disciplined. Focused. Wealthy. She owns the majority share of several dilithium mines.”

“They also have been widowed several times under dubious circumstances. And she has also been accused of discrimination against hybrids...”

“Teknat is age appropriate and works as a geneticist on a Vulcanian colony near the Neutral Zone. He is due for a promotion. Oh, and look - His father is on the board of the VSA...”

“He is average and has no real accomplishments on his own. Michael cannot wed ‘potential,’ mother.”

“What about Stelev? He _is_ the Vulcan Intergalactic Trade Association.”

“And he is older than you and father combined by 1.5 times. He seeks a nursemaid - not a life partner.”

“Is there no one in the entirety of the universe that will make either of you happy…!?” his wife mutters hotly under her breath, causing both father and son to raise their brows. 

“Mother, your response to this situation is well-meaning but overly emotional.”

“Do not give me that,” Amanda warns him, her finger wagging. “Emotions were a vital part in building our family, Spock.”

To this point, Sarek concedes. He feels the bond between his wife and their sons and their daughter _very_ strongly. However, he suspects that Spock must not feel the same way. His Kh'aa has grown long cold and unappetizing. Sarek sets it aside.

“Mother, I know _you_ want to be happy,” his son continues. He sounds too tired for someone his age. “And for this reason, you should want a Vulcan who understands that expressing happiness is necessary and important for their human bondmate and their eventual, half-human off-spring.”

From where he sits, Sarek watches as his wife goes pale. Even Surak’s wisdom cannot prevent Spock’s words from finding its target, and he finds offense because it has been so freely given. 

“Much has been said tonight, I think,” Amanda stammers, her tone indicating their conversation had come to an end. “Let us talk another day. Until then, please be well, my son.” She disconnects the call before Spock can protest. He notes how her hands shake as she tucks her tray under her arm, before folding them in front her. “Sarek, I am not unhappy. Taluhk nash-veh k'dular, k’diwa…” 

There are no falsehoods in her words, and even more troubling, there are none in Spock’s either. His best efforts clearly afforded him very little standing within his _own_ family. Sarek does what his father Skon would have done (and he hates himself for it): he holds a hand aloft and demands his wife be silent. Amanda snaps her lips shut, her hazel eyes darting away in shame. He is _not happy_ and he lets that discomfort flow freely between their bond. 

“I will leave Michael to you then...” is all he can say to her as Sarek plucks up his tea, his book, and exits the room.

~~~

After the suitor announcement, Sybok’s forum (and his credits) dries up faster than a puddle under a midday Forge sun. After all, why would any Vulcan pursue a woman who is spoken for? Either way, he still had a spaceship to repair, a galaxy to explore, and several angry debtors to pay off. So, Sybok agreed to take the bulk of T’Mia’s graveyard shifts - mostly for the overtime but also because she was very cute, unbonded, and might agree to at least one overnight on the outskirts of The Forge together…

He stifles a yawn and keys commands to the “returns” drone at the top of the queue. It whorls to life and flies away once completed as he shuffles down to the next. The monotony of his tasks causes his mind to wander. Until recently, he believed that Amanda was the more level-ended parent before this “marriage fever” overtook her.

“You’re next!” she threatened him over breakfast every morning since the announcement. As usual, his father said nothing - choosing to sip his spiced tea and read the morning feeds instead. “And then, grandchildren…!”

Him? Bonded? With offspring?! He suppresses a violent shudder at the thought.

“Are you meditating on the job?”

Sybok is pulled from his thoughts by a voice that sounds like stone scratching against glass. He looks down and finds his supervisor standing in from the kiosk window. Such dour-looking little man - a mass of wrinkles, divets, and beady, glaring eyes. He subtly wrinkles his nose - this geezer smells like damp paper and dust.

“New information requests, new publications for categorization assignments,” Sybok grumbles. The supervisor manifests a holo-queue with a flick of his wrist. He feels his katra draining from his body as the damn thing literally spans the length from the ceiling to the floor. “Complete these tasks by shift end.”

And with that, Sybok watches as the old beast slinks away. Gods, what he would do for some Gal-en-du'un and Tarkelian ale right now. He decides to tackle the informational requests first: organize them by department, compile the necessary batches, pin the original request invoice at the top of the queue, and then return. He will let their departments’ admins sort out what goes to whom as they sent the requests in the first place.

He takes on the more daunting task of assigning categories to new works. Sybok uses a modified text identification algorithm that he had been toying with that might help if he cross references it with the library’s systems. He calculates a 91.867% success rate and 100% task completion within four to five hours. If anything goes wrong, he will leave it to T’Mia. 

After all, she is not _that_ cute.

Faint footsteps catch his ear as someone approaches the desk yet again. By the Gods, it is the middle of the night - why is anyone still here?!

“How may I assist you?” Sybok offers without looking up from his coding. Something drops onto the desk with a soft thump. He glances and spots a smal, black jewelry box. He turns to look at his guest: a rather attractive Vulcan - symmetrical features, even complexion, tall, and _very_ well-dressed. Their eyebrows and bob are incredibly manicured to the point of obsession. And despite their stony, Vulcanian expression, there is a pleasant, inviting energy that radiates from their entire being.

It is equally annoying and awe-inspiring. 

Sybok blinks slowly at the gift and then at his guest. He is certain he has seen this face before… 

Yes, Michael’s peer who brings her tea! The one his remaining patrons call “Ek’wak-kuhlaya…”

_(The Eternal Rival.)_

“Senior Research Director of the Vulcan Expedition Group’s Astrogeological Department Voris, I presume.” 

“You presume correctly, Junior Level Archival Scientist Sybok, Son of Ambassador Sarek,” Voris returns, their voice soothing. “I have a request. Please give this to your step-mother.”

“My step-mother is a married woman, Voris. Surely, you know that Sarek’s skills with the lirpa are unmatched.”

“I must clarify that this gift is not for Lady Amanda but only to be given to her.”

“Oh...?”

The Eternal Rival says nothing, mostly because they are more interested in Sybok’s PADD than Sybok’s query.

“May I?” they ask, eyes still trained on his screen. Sybok raises a brow and slides his PADD towards them. The Vulcan does not look at it for more than two minutes before they begin to furiously type entire paragraphs of code. It goes on for quite a while, the beeps and clicks resonating in their silence.

“Categorization success rate is now 99.9999998%...” the PADD’s computerized voice announces. Voris passes it back without a word. 

“So, will you deliver my gift?”

Sybok nods, taking the box and sliding it into his jacket pocket. As the interloper turns and walks off, Sybok pours through their code like a mad-man. It is _perfect_ \- exceeding his own genius (but just only). He is able to complete 43.6205% of his requests in less than twenty-two minutes. As he issues retrieval orders to the drones, a bird-like voice calls out to him:

“I require assistance.” 

Again, by the Gods, what is all of this traffic in the dead of the night?! Sybok glances up and spies a mousy Vulcan female waiting by the kiosk window. The edge of the desk is just below her chest; her dress gives her the appearance that she is literally drowning in fabric.

“What assistance do you require, miss?”

“I am returning these items,” she answers. “But I need a few more.” Instead of placing the PADDs on the desk, she holds them out. 

Sybok takes them from her hand, and after a quick examination, finds several credits tucked between them.

“What do you need?”

“Items 17, 39, 53, 91...and 113. Highest definition.”

“Understood.” But as he turns to leave, the tiny one grabs him by his uniform’s lapel and yanks him towards her. She is so short that Sybok slaps the palms of his hands to keep from hitting his chin on the desktop. Her dead, muddy eyes conceal a hungry, consuming fire. He feels beads of sweat gathering beneath his wig as she burns him her dead-eyed gaze.

“They say the _ek'wak-kuhlaya_ …” she whispers - slowly, dangerously. “...he is still pursuing _Koon-ut-so'lik_ with _our_ Shin-Ka-Ti?”

Sybok tries to pull away but she yanks him down again with freakish strength. 

“I wish to participate as well…” the little one hisses, her canines gleaming under the library lights. “Tell me, what gift would win her parents’ approval? Has a bride price been offered? Accepted?”

It was until this very moment, Sybok fully understood why the Romulans accuse Vulcans of keeping monsters in their hearts...

“That depends,” he replies, his lips forming a Cheshire grin a mile long. It is enough to make the girl’s iron-like grip waver so that he can free himself. As Sybok straightens his lapel, he continues to smile down at her. “How much would you pay for such vital information?”

~~~

This was the fourth call she had to make and it is barely midmorning. Amanda smoothes the front of her dress with nervous hands and tries to not think about her husband holed up somewhere else, reading that ridiculous book. She spent sorting through the suitor list, trying to make sense of his annotations and Michael’s objections - only to then remain alone when she finally retired for the night. 

“Ma’am, I have bought your morning meal and tea.” 

Amanda looks up and finds B’aht standing in her office door, tray in hand. She nods and he comes in right away, setting it down on her desk. As he pours her spiced tea, she catches him stealing glances at the list floating between them. 

(Thankfully, she had the sense to conceal the bride prices…) 

“May I ask how your call with Councilwoman Ych'a went?” he asks.

“Terribly...” Amanda answers, leaning over her desk as her servant places her cup into her outstretched hands. She pauses to take several sips. “B’aht, will you marry Michael for me?”

“No,” he replies a little too quickly, the corners of his mouth twitching. “My bondmate Sobek and I prefer men and our monogamy.”

“...like a norsehlat with his tail on fire...” she mumbles to herself popping a piece of gespar into her frowning mouth as she watched B’aht practically flee from the room. Amanda looks back at the list - nothing but a mass of names crossed out in angry red lines.

She begins to suspect that her son’s poorly veiled insult to her own marriage may yield some useful advice. She reviews the council woman's profile again. Ych’a works long hours, rarely leaves her office, and has a reputation for being rather conservative - even for a Vulcan. And more to Spock’s point, her empathic levels are frighteningly low. 

And then, Amanda begins to see the pattern in Michael’s logic: empathy, availability, volunteer efforts, interplanetary travel experience, artistic pursuits, the number of their non-human acquintainences… The few surviving Vulcans had high ‘marks’ in every category. Her brain whorling like a top, Amanda pulls open her desk drawer and finds the gift box Sybok has passed along to her. After a brief, internal debate, she decides to open it.

A soft gasp escapes her lips and she quickly shuts it again, her eyes wide. Amanda’s voice quavers slightly as she orders the computer to contact A’hn.

“Yes, ma’am?” her servant grumbles out through the comm. “How may I help you?”

“Ahn,” she says, pulling up the Vulcan citizen registry. Sometimes, there were perks to her (sometimes tenuous) marriage to her Ambassador Sarek. “...can you tell me who sent I-Chaya, Jr. again?”

~~~

Michael was ordered by her department to arrive an hour ahead of schedule - the head of their department wishes to speak to her about a “matter of great importance.” 

“My firing, most likely,” she mumbles as Ahn helps her into the transport. “I should just return to Starfleet.”

“There is no logic in assuming that the discussion would be about that, Lady Michael,” Ahn reassures her, as much as a Vulcan can reassure someone. “Speak with her first, then decide if you should panic.” To that, Michael can only nod as the transport pulls off and away.

Honestly, she has only seen her department head twice. The first time was during her new employee orientation a few months ago. The second time was when she attended one of Michael’s classes for an evaluation (“More than satisfactory,” is all she said to her before she gathered her clipboard and swept her cape-dress in a dramatic fashion as she left her classroom.).

So, Michael now sits - transfixed with fear - as the stern-looking Vulcan woman “happily” praises her recent successes in a tone that would indicate otherwise: “Your works have granted our department a sizable budgetary increase. We await further papers for review and publication,” which is what she actually said, but translated it was the biggest “Atta, girl!” that Michael received from a Vulcan outside of her own clan.

She leaves her office on a metaphorical cloud, feeling the watchful eyes of her co-workers on her back. The urge to share her good news takes her in the direction of Paul’s office, but when she reaches his door, Michael suddenly remembers that it is his day-off.

With a sigh, she heads to the cafeteria instead. And it is packed with no familiar faces in sight (Not that Michael knew any…). Still, she manages to acquire the last of the plomeek broth and some saffir, before deciding she is better off eating alone in her office than with Vulcans that cannot be bothered to become acquainted with her.

As she nears the exit, someone stands up and in her path. Michael stops short, her soup sloshing dangerously in her bowl. She recognizes him and his companions from Genetic Engineering (Vulcanian Animal Cloning and Conservation, to be precise).

“Professor Burnham, would you not sit and speak with us for a moment?” he asks. She conceals her own shock as they shift over, making room for her

“Certainly, Professor....” 

“Vektan,” he replies, gesturing to the open seat once more. Michael slides in between them. Vulcans do not make small talk during meals, so they politely wait for everyone to finish before bombarding her with questions. A few of them want to join her on the next excursion to the Gamma Quadrant. Before long, the chronometer’s bells begin to chime. Exchanging a round of polite nods, they ask her if she would do this again. Heart fluttering, face cool, Michael agrees. (Schedule permitting, of course.)

As she clears her tray and considers skipping her office hour appointments. After all, the only people that visit her are Stark, Paul, or Voris. But when she enters her department, Michael finds a long queue of students lining along the corridor wall. 

As she reaches her offer her door, Michael quickly realizes that the queue begins at her door. A student greets her with a ta’al. “Professor.”

“T’Pala,” she replies, returning her gesture. “Please, follow me.”

T’Pala wants to know if joining Starfleet would be a more prudent move than joining the Vulcan Defense Force. Azeraik wants to know if switching his primary academic focus to Xenoanthropology from Nuclear Particle Physics would be “more fulfilling.” Professor Fer’at wants to know if he can accompany her on her next excursion because he wants to test his new universal translation algorithms:

“They are incredibly sensitive to changes in accent and tone,” he persists, shoving yet another PADD into Michael’s view. “On the primary Andorian mountain range, there are exactly two-hundred-fifty-four variants on the standard, due to each populations varying degree in lack of access to-

“I will consider your request,” she cuts him off as she shoves the PADD back. She is too exhausted to maintain any semblance of civility after having seen and heard nearly forty requests in a single day. “The impact and importance of your work could be a major benefit to all.” As Fer’at nods and rises to leave, Michael spots Voris - their usual tea tray in hand - standing in the open doorway. She gives them a ta’al, to which they return after gracefully maneuvering the tray onto a single hand.

Just as Voris is about to step inside, some one steps right in his path. It is Stark - her little shadow.

“Forgiveness, _Senior_ Director, but I do have the last appointment for the day,” she hears him explain.

“I see,” is all they say in return. Voris then places the tea tray into Stark’s hands. “There is no logic in being wasteful. Another day, Professor.”

Michael nods, swallowing her disappointment.

~~~

It is dusk by the time Stark finally emerges from Professor Burnham’s office. He spent a heavenly thirty minutes together, drinking his rival’s tea and extrapolating quantitative data from the personal logs of Discovery’s crew. Everything was perfect - from her blue dress that flowed like the waters of Yuron to carefully painted crimson lips that pouted before she spoke. And he nearly expired from pure joy when she called his proposal for a spore-drive anti-nausea inoculation was “insightful.”

The V’tosh ka’tur is truly a godsend. After nearly two weeks of waiting, his new system allowed Stark to “purchase” one of the Professor’s highly coveted office hour time slots. He could have smiled, he was so happy…! As he strolls along the hall, his PADD begins to ping. He sits onto a nearby bench and fishes it from his satchel. A message pops up on his screen as soon as he touches it:

_Why should the Ek’wak-kuhlaya have all of the fun? Click here!_

Stark taps the link and his heart nearly skips a beat when he sees what he is seeing…! He has already paid his tuition, leaving him with enough credits for what he truly desires. So what if he will not be able to eat this week - most Vulcans can go without any nourishment for two weeks! Stark enters in his credit code and jabs at the “mahr-tor” button. 

~~~

Another transfer hits Sybok’s account with a telltale ping from his PADD. 

Ambition. Lust. Greed. Envy. His people had vices like any other race in the galaxy, and by the gods, they are all so incredibly lucrative. And the Suitor Profiles and Courtship Rankings are his top selling items within twelve hours of its posting. Sybok smiles to himself, causing the driver to raise a single brow at him through the rear view mirror 

(“Ni'droi'ik nar-tor. Rish-ha-vel-Rihansuas,” he explains. As the driver nods solemnly, Sybok hopes he has no other fares for the rest of the month.).

He starts to thumb through his recent photos on his private PADD. Despite their protests, Michael _is_ beautiful. Sybok lingers on an image of her playing with I-Chaya, Jr. in the family garden. Her smile is radiant as Eridani’s rays as she holds the pup in her lap and her dress flows around them like the waves of the Voroth over the lawn.

He opens up a message to Spock, attaches the photo, and sends it off. One of his best customers, Stark, responds almost instantly with a “nafai,” causing his smirk to widen into a sneer.

In another life, Sybok may have loved her too. But what form that love would have taken, he would never know... 

In this life, Michael is only a means to an end. 

_They all are._

“La’pehkau,” he orders the transport driver, closing his comm. The cab pulls over to the curb. He climbs out and disappears into the streets of the Off-Worlders’ district. In a matter of minutes, Sybok finds himself at their bar. 

As he enters, he spies his companions at the back. He shoulders his way through the crowd, waving and smiling at familiar faces as makes his way over.

“How could you do this to yourself?!” Pallas teases, ruffling his hair once he is in arm’s reach. “Grow your shit back, Bokky.”

“Dying to, trust…”

Devi deftly plucks several shot glasses from a harried server’s tray. He passes one to Sybok and Pallas. They give cheers. Sybok loves the way Saurian brandy burns as he chokes it down. He will need fuel for their next move.

“How much have we made?” Devi asks, placing their empties on the table. 

“Quintuple what I’ve earned so far,” Sybok replies, wiping his lips on his uniform sleeve. “...and that doesn’t include my welcome home gifts.”

Pallas whistles.

“At least we have money for a new ship,” Devi sneers. “And some damn fuel too…” 

“And there are opportunities to get more. Little sister’s fanbase has produced a fair number of suitors...”

“Who?” ask Pallas, eyes wide.

“Don’t know or care,” he replies, sliding a distracted patron’s bottle of blood wine into his hand. “But given how that business is going, I am raking in serious finder’s fees from the backend. We might finally get L’Mara off of our asses too.”

“But we still have one problem, Bokky,” grumbles Devi. “And it’s a big one.”

“And that is?”

“ _That place_ is a literal maze,” Pallas, her tone low. “And the only people that know the layout are the staff. And even then, it’s all in their minds. So, maybe if you used that mind-thingy, we could-”

“I prefer the path of least resistance. I don’t want to hurt them.”

For now, this is true. However, his patience for societal niceties grows thinner by the day. Just as he is about to take a sip, his PADD pings. He fishes it from his bag and unlocks it. A smile pulls at the corners of his lips when he recognizes its sender’s ID. Their message simply reads: 

_We will see you when ready, Sy-kam._

“More business?” asks Pallas as Sybok chuckles to himself.

“No,” he grins, returning the PADD to its case. “...our other way.”

~~~

Spock’s replicator tray snaps in half, sending his salad flying across the table.

“God, not this again…” Una grumbles, picking mixed-greens from her dark hair. “Just send him home already, Chris.”

Ignoring her insubordination, Captain Pike sets his fork down. He flicks a tomato from his shoulder before standing to check on his Lieutenant. 

“Another evil premonition looming over your family again, buddy?” he asks gently, taking the broken tray from his subordinate’s shaky grasp. 

Spock nods. 

“Ok, let’s go talk to the ship’s counselor about little R&R...”

~~~

The sun finally sets beneath The Forge as Sarek shuts his book with an audible snap. Honestly, he should have gone to work today but Mr. Shaw’s words were just so fascinating, he could not pull away even with his great strength of will. In the end, it saddened him to know that Professor Higgins remained a cruel, dismissive, condescending man-child; that he refused to acknowledge the strong, self-assured person Eliza has become on her own, in spite of constant bullying.

Sarek sits back in his study chair with a sigh. Is this how Michael sees him, as an insufferable tyrant determined to dictate every moment in her life? To mold her by his own misguided (but well-intentioned) desires?

Once, Captain Georgiou expressed concerns over Michael’s lack of a genuine self:

_It is a coping mechanism, this extreme people-pleasing tendency of hers. If you like chocolate, she likes chocolate, even if eating it might kill her. Michael fears non-compliance because, to a degree, she still believes that ‘being a selfish girl’ resulted in the death of her parents and the bombing at the VLC._

But Michael was anything but selfish. Stubborn? When it counted. But, selfish? No.

Sarek recalled that night when shel was rejected from the Expedition Group. She never knew he caught her sobbing into Amanda’s lap. It _hurt_ to hear her consider herself a failure, a waste of resources - not because of her own wounded pride (That Sarek helped orchestrate…), but because she was afraid of what it would do to _his_ reputation.

Perhaps, this really was a pattern of behavior on his part...

Sybok embraced T’Rea’s radical teachings because it was all he had left of her. For Sarek to force him to follow his path, to be a “proper” Vulcan like he was, only served to drive his eldest away. Inwardly, he berates himself for continuing to lose to the parent who underwent kolinahr _and_ had been fully dead for decades. 

And then, there was Spock. 

If Sarek was Higgins, then Spock was surely his Eliza. After all, he spent years berating him for his half-human son and his own human wife for their humanness. Little-by-little, as Amanda became more muted, he felt Spock’s resentment of him grow. But he ignored it, hoping that their sacrifice would yield in the ultimate reward - that his youngest would be accepted by all of Vulcan, and therefore, would be evidence that non-Vulcans and Vulcans could coexist equally.

Yet, Spock left him and Vulcan for Earth. And in his own way, he embraced the very same humanity for which Sarek punished him.

What a fool he was. So, he calls out:

_Ni'droi'ik nar-tor, k'diwa. Taluhk nash-veh k'dular..._

But she does not answer him. And why should she? He treated her as his father treated his mother...

Suddenly, his ears twitch as the sound of footsteps coming from the hall outside of his study, increases in speed as they draw nearer. His study door slams open, revealing a harried-looking Amanda in her sleeping gown.

“Taluhk nash-veh k'dular nuh', duhik sa-telsu…!” she gasps as she hurries towards him. Sarek feels the corners of his mouth twitch. He is a fool and she has every right to call him that. He rises to his feet just in time for Amanda to throw herself at him. And he catches her, letting her pepper his face with kisses. She tastes like gespar and kh’aa and chocolate and all sorts of other things he misses when he is not with her…

Their reunion is just as sweet. In the afterglow, they stay close, their limbs tangled together. 

“Sarek, I think I have a solution to Michael’s ‘problem,’” she says between his kisses. Reluctantly, he lets her go, so she can explain. “There is a clear winner, but I want to confirm my suspicions first.”

“I think I see your logic…” Sarek adds. “If we make the match without consulting Michael, even if it is someone who fits her standards, she might still reject them-”

“-because she needs to confirm that fact for herself.”

Yes, very logical indeed. And he continues to tell her so, as Sarek playful rolls back in toward Amanda and scoops her up for another round.

~~~

Each day has become an unending slog - office hours, lectures, meetings about upcoming publications, meetings about upcoming conferences, lunches disguised as meetings about meetings, advising students’ theses… 

And then, one day, it starts when Michael realizes her sehlat figure is missing from her office desk. Then, her favorite stylus disappears from its dock in her bedroom. Soon after, the embroidered handkerchief Spock bought for her on a school trip to Andor Prime vanishes from her work satchel. Little-by-little more of her precious things leave her - a third-edition of W.W. Jacob’s anthology “The Lady of the Barge'' that Amanda gave to her for sixteenth birthday, a pair of socks made from quattil fur, a holopicture of her and I-Chaya, Jr. playing in the garden...

But they must be _somewhere_ because Michael is extremely organized. And surely, no one could have taken them because Vulcans do not steal (or so Vulcans like to lie.). 

“Am I losing my mind?” she asks Sybok one night as they load end meal dishes into the replicator. They eat alone together as both Amanda and Sarek have taken to hiding away in their respective offices to work. “I do not understand where everything went…”

“You’re working too much,” her “brother” replies, drying his hands on a dish towel. “It is likely you’re misplacing things because you’re tired.”

Likely indeed. Michael has been working hard to maintain her department’s standing. She has been staying up late picking apart her expedition grant proposals to the Expedition Group, grading term papers and writing letters of recommendation, reviewing marriage proposals, caring for I-Chaya, Jr…

With a sigh, she turns on the replicator and retreats to her room. She finds I-Chaya, Jr. dozing peacefully in the middle of her pillow. She is envious as she shifts her gaze between the stacks of PADDs on her already overcrowded desk and the soft, inviting bed.

Work wins. Michael slides into her desk chair and turns on a PADD. She pauses as she reaches for her stylus. Her le’matya figure is laying on its side. In one fluid motion, she yanks open a drawer and scoops it and all of her figurines inside. After all, a hypothesis without testing remains a theory she muses to herself as Sybok’s words echo in her mind. But as Michael moves to lock it, she spots something. Gingerly, she pulls out a tiny box wrapped up in suspiciously festive wrapping paper. There is a note attached to it and as she read it, Michael recognizes Amanda’s beautiful scrawl: 

_Another thoughtful gift from your suitor._

Setting the note aside, Michael admires the paper’s tiny, pouncing quattil design before opening it. A shiny object falls into the middle of her skirted lap. She plucks up a golden brooch in the shape of a Vulcanian orchid. 

“Another gift?” Michael nearly falls out of her chair. Clutching the brooch to her breast, she swivels and finds Sybok - uninvited, yet again - leaning against her door. “It looks nice…”

“It...it’s a gold-pressed latinum brooch…” she stammers. Sybok lets out a low whistle.

“Do you know who it is from?” 

Turning it over, she finds a familiar constellation engraved on its back. Its grooves feel smooth as she runs her thumb over it. Two incredibly thoughtful gifts and no name attached... 

~~~

With their free hand, Voris presses the door chime for Professor Burnham’s office. It has been at least two weeks before they last met with her since Michael’s increasing popularity and their own workload make it difficult for them to spend any time together. But it is roughly twenty-seven minutes before the first bells, so they test their luck.

To their relief, the office door slides open and as Voris steps inside and they find her alone. For once. The scent of spiced teas lifts Michael’s head as she pauses read something on her PADD to look at him. 

“Tonk’peh,” they offer, holding the tea tray out.

“Tonk’peh,” she replies to their delight.

“I have come to serve...your morning spiced tea.” And then she does something they had always hoped she would do - laugh. Michael blushes and coughs politely behind her hand. They cannot help but notice the soft color of her nails, a natural pink that contrasts pleasingly against her dark skin.

“Nemaiyo, for the tea,” she says as they set a saucer on her desk. “...and your joke.” They are pleased she understood.

“Yes, you are quite popular these days,” Voris comments, taking the seat across from her. “...as is expected from your success.”

“ _Our_ success,” she replies, holdings her teacup aloft in a gesture of a human toast. They mimic her gesture before taking a sip. 

“May I ask how your courtship matters are proceeding?” Voris is taking rather large risks - even though they had clearly established a level of trust and familiarity with Michael, this would still be considered an extremely intimate subject amongst their people.

Michael sets her tea cup down with a sigh: “Well, I want to quit the matter entirely but our Matriarch will not allow it. In fact, I know she has reinstated some people that I rejected outright...”

Voris does not need to ask for her reasoning. In recent days, their father reported a rather steep increase in the number of competitors to become her bondmate. And the few of those that Voris managed to uncover, were Vulcans of serious influence and import - to dismiss them with a simple ‘no, thank you’ would be unacceptable.

With great trepidation, Voris forces themselves to ask: “Then, do you have objections to being bonded?” 

“No, I prefer to spend at least one moment alone with a prospective partner without the influence or interference of the family.”

“Oh…?” Voris cheers (inwardly) at their advantage. Michael’s position on the matter is a logical one. Bondmates, especially those bonded as children, do not have many opportunities to be alone aside from the annual Ten’chara mind-meld or right before their actual Koon-ut-kal-if-fee. For that reason (among others), Voris and his bondmate mutually agreed to release one another. Naturally, their parents had been furious but in time they understood.

And Voris has seen several male cousins lose their lives because they falsely assumed their bondmates would simply “go along, to get along” as Terrans like to say. Voris grimaces at the mental image of Sakht’s head split open like old tolik fruit (and the irony of his name…).

The first bell begins to chime and Voris is pulled from their dark thoughts. Michael sets her tea down, apologizing as she gathers her things for her first lecture of the day.

Voris tells her not to worry: “I will clean up. Please go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Michael replies in her native Terran tongue. Perhaps, it was an unintentional error but, it fills Voris with joy all the same. She rushes past him to her door, which slides open to reveal a small crowd already waiting for her. Voris notes the slight slump in her shoulders as Michael steps outside to greet them.

~~~

_“GOLD PRESSED LATINUM?!?”_

_“How can we even compete with that? Not on a warp drive maintenance engineer’s salary...”_

_“I just spent my cycle’s allowance on the latest photo sets…”_

_“The one of Lady Burnham sunbathing by Lake Yuron?”_

_“No, the one of her visiting a Shi’kahri nursery school for First-Contact Day.”_

Sybok smirks as he imagines them sighing collectively in adoration. After all, Michael looks extremely maternal as she sings and claps along with little children. He continues to scroll through his feed, watching them encourage each other to not to give up. 

_Surely, she must not want the Ek’wak-kuhlaya because Lady Burnham would have answered their request for marriage by now._

A message window appears in the middle of his screens. Sybok taps on it absently as he continues to read through the rest of the thread. As he glances back at the message, it causes him to double-take: 

_[How much would it cost to orchestrate a “run-in”?]_

Sybok runs a check on the username - **_Terr@nGur1zR0n1y_ ** \- but after a few minutes it cannot trace its owner. He finds a few of their comments on some older threads, but they are nothing more than the occasional “interesting” or “fascinating.” It is when Sybok reviews their purchase history that he nearly chokes on his spice tea. Eyes wide, he scrubs at his lips before he types out a reply: 

_[If I say “yes,” what is it you intend to do?]_

_[I will pretend to return a few of the personal effects that I purchased from you._

_Then, I shall take satisfaction in being in her presence and her experiencing her gratitude._

_Nothing more.]_

_[Absolutely no touching and no more than five minutes._

_And I will be waiting nearby, so do not attempt_ **_anything_ ** **.** ]

_[Understood._

_Will this amount be sufficient?]_

Within seconds, his PADD pings. Sybok opens it and finds a credit transfer. It is...substantial. And yet, the monster in his heart remains quiet.

[ _I will arrange something in three days time. Please stand-by until then.]_

Sybok closes the forum and tucks his PADD away under his kiosk desk. And just in time, as his supervisor crawls out of whatever krovill den he was hiding away in. The old beast sniffs disapprovingly and waves his hand at the shelf in the back corner. 

“The library is for VSA staff, students, approved guests, and Vulcan citizens only,” he mutters. “I suspect the woman lingering over there is not any of those. Please see what she needs or kindly make her leave.”

Sybok simply nods and takes off, heading in the direction of the back shelves. There he finds a Orion female standing at the end of the aisle. She is dressed as if she stopped by the library after a long night of clubbing, her dress leaves very little to even a Vulcan’s lack of imagination and sports a visor that takes up half of her face. 

Strategically, Sybok grabs onto a nearby return cart and wheels it toward her. No need to make this look like what it was only about chasing out the riff-raff. Her long black ponytail swings across her shoulders before she stomps over to him on ridiculously tall heels. He is somewhat impressed.

“May I be of service?” Sybok asks, slowing as she approaches.

“I think it is the other way around...” the Orion replies, lowering her visor just enough to show him her eyes. Hedoes the unthinkable and smiles. She returns it. As she stops at his side, she discreetly slips a folded piece of paper between the PADDs in his pushcart. With a smirk, she adds: “...Bokky”

“Ma’am,” he replies with a wink.

“Your temple friend said to swing by at next cycle’s end,” Pallas whispers, twisting her pretty head about in search of eavesdroppers. “She said something about hardly anyone being there because of Kal Rekk.”

Sybok does not answer her. His ears twitch, so he pretends to return PADDs to their nooks. Pallas folds her arms across her ample chest and turns back to look at a shelf. Idly, she grabs the nearest PADD and turns it on. 

_Play along_ , he mouths at her in the reflection of the screen.

“Well, if you don’t have the information I am looking for, I’ll be on my way…!” she announces theatrically. “I thought Vulcans knew everything in the universe, I guess I was wrong!’

“I understand, ma’am,” Sybok mocks sympathetically. “Please come back another time.”

Pallas rests her PADD on top of his cart before she trots away. He watches her go and also spots his supervisor lingering at the end of the aisle. As she passes him, Pallas tosses her ponytail into the old beast's wrinkled face and stomps off.

~~~

_It shifts like the Forge sands. Now, they speak without talking. Michael watches the Admiral’s lips moving soundlessly. Detmer and Rhys flank her, shivering underneath their Federation-issued blankets._

_“...glad you returned,” the Admiral says, a smile on her face. “Welcome back.”_

_But to what?_

_She rises to her feet like the rest, following them out as they file into the hall. One-by-one they are led into tiny rooms. The doors snap shut behind them. She can hear shouting but it is not unpleasant. There are shadows lingering beyond their doors, and each of her crew seem desperate to reach them._

_Eventually, only she remains. Michael stands in front of her door. It swishes open and she steps inside._

_There is nothing waiting for her but a blackened screen in her array against the far wall. A small red light blinks in its corner. With trepidation, she presses it._

_A voice - a familiar, rich tenor - suddenly fills the tiny room:_ _“Sister, are you finally home again?”_

_Michael parts her lips to answer, but to her surprise, she emits a chirping sound. It is all too mechanical, too rhythmic, too deliberate. She tries to address the disembodied voice again and chirps, each growing longer and louder until….!_

She sits up so quickly she nearly tumbles out of her own bed. I-Chaya growls at her as she has disturbed his sleep yet again. The sehlat pup scrambles over her startled form and trots over to her bedroom door. It is only then that Michael realizes that her chime has been ringing. 

“Come in,” she grumbles, gathering her blanket just under her chin. B’aht steps inside. Briskly, he crosses the room and delivers a handwritten note addressed to herself. Ice instantly cascades across every nerve-ending when Michael sees who it is from - Matriarch T’Sehn. With great trepidation, shel unfolds the envelope and begins to read it: 

_If you continue to fall prey to indecision and illogic, then the responsibility of selecting your bondmate will fall to me. There will be no objections._

She turns the note over, hoping to find more but there is nothing else.

“Is this a joke?” Michael asks. She wonders if she is still dreaming but when she looks up to ask her servant, B’aht is already gone. 


End file.
